


For Balance

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Ice Skating, M/M, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14803080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: "Skating… really?" he says, his eyes into two fine lines. He quickly deduces John, not seeing why he would lie to him about that. John doesn't seem to be a skating person. John doesn't seem to be a person that's interested in anything other than books, his blog, Sherlock Holmes, making tea, a clean kitchen, buying milk and the occasional woman breaking into their flat like she's invited there. In that order.





	For Balance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mandysimo13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/gifts).



> This was written from this prompt by mandysimo13: how about a prompt where they're at a skate rink and john surprisingly is more graceful on skates than sherlock and john has to help him around the rink and hold his hand to keep him from losing his balance
> 
> I was aiming for fluffy, it ended up being cracky as well. Hope you enjoy!

 

"I don't understand what I'm doing here."

"Put these on," John says, handing him the pair of skates. John is being incredibly thick. Even more so than the time he pretended not knowing the atomic mass of arsenic by declaring that there shouldn't be highly toxic substances in the kitchen in the first place. Honestly, the atomic mass of _arsenic_.

"I still don't understand what I'm doing here."

"I should be recording this. I said I was going out." John sighs, sitting down on the bench, beginning to tie up the ridiculous shoes mounted on blades. How many people used these as a murder weapon? He'd have to research it.

Sherlock nods. He remembers that much of the conversation. He didn't think John minded following _him_ out, though. And now he has a pair of skates in his hands and doesn't know what to do. "Out as in…?"

"Going skating. I thought you were a genius?"

Not fewer than a thousand questions rush in Sherlock's mind. "Skating… _really_?" he says, his eyes into two fine lines. He quickly deduces John, not seeing why he would lie to him about that. John doesn't seem to be a skating person. John doesn't seem to be a person that's interested in anything other than books, his blog, Sherlock Holmes, making tea, a clean kitchen, buying milk and the occasional woman breaking into their flat like she's invited there. In that order.

"It's fun, Sherlock. People do that for fun. And if you're going to tell me— to talk at me about the case, you'll have to do it on the ice. Meet me there."

John storms off in the most ridiculous way, walking like a duck on silts, chin high, probably trying to preserve what remains of his dignity. Actually, Sherlock thinks, the blog is kind of about him too, so he's really number two in John's list of interests. Unless skating comes first. Which would propel him to third place. Unacceptable.

He sits down on the bench, reconsidering the skates he's holding in one hand and his rightful place in John's life.

 

***

 

The moment he emerges from the locker room, John is out of sight, already on the square of ice. Night has fallen, the harsh lights illuminating the outdoor ice-skating rink. There are People out there too. Which is bad. Sherlock walks towards the ice, chin high, intensely trying to preserve what remains of his dignity. He grabs the side of the wooden white board. Sets one ~~foot~~ blade on the ice. Then the other.

His bottom follows.

He grabs the side of the wall, pulling himself right up, trying to anchor his shoe in the ground before being reminded the harsh way that he's not wearing shoes, but blades, and that the ground is apparently made up of the same material they use to build the walls in Hell, if Hell was real. Which it _is_ , because Sherlock is currently sliding on it.

"Gotcha!" John's voice says, behind Sherlock, grabbing him by underneath his arms, and helping him standing up. "You never said that you didn't know how to skate."

"Of _course_ I know how to—" John doesn't let him finish his sentence before he drops his hold on him, which makes Sherlock go forward, only caught at the last second by John again. "Don't," Sherlock breathes out, as in _don't let go of me or I might die_.

"Right. Just hold on, I'll come in front of you."

He does. He is smiling, and for one second, Sherlock forgets that they're in a highly public place. He clears his throat, putting his hands on John's shoulders. "This is a mistake."

John chuckles. "You're doing fine. Just hold my hands."

Sherlock grabs John's arms, steadying himself, knowing well enough that his bottom is sticking out in the most humiliating way, but it's this, or another fall on the hard ice.

John starts skating backwards. _Backwards_ , of all things. Sherlock follows, because he wouldn't let go for all the locked-room cases in London. "See? You're doing fine. When you're ready, you're going to slide one foot to the side to push yourself on the ice."

"I know how skating works, John."

John raises an eyebrow, waiting for Sherlock to show his abilities. He lifts his foot, steadying himself on John's arms, and nearly loses his balance forwards. "Left side next," John orders, and Sherlock obeys.

In the end, skating is not so hard with a bit of help. He notices that most kids have chairs. He has John Watson. Not any John Watson, a John Watson that is in a good mood, trying not to laugh too much at Sherlock's incompetence. A John Watson that doesn't mind touching him. A John Watson he lies directly on, chest to chest, when he completely drops forward for the first time.

They skate for about an hour, before Sherlock decides that it's enough time for his toes to have fallen off from frostbite. John helps him back to the locker room, arm in arm.

Sherlock nearly wants to take his hand when they walk back to Baker Street, but reconsiders. They're not in the rink anymore, and after all, he can't pretend he doesn't know how to walk. Although it seems enticing. John breaks the silence only once: "I quite like skating. Wasn't able to when I was in Afghanistan, of course, or when I got back, with the limp and all. I used to play hockey with the other kids on my street after school."

Sherlock nods, unsure about what would be right to say at this time, knowing that kissing the words out of John's mouth might not be an appreciated reaction. He must learn how to skate. He must, he must.

In the end, he forgets about the cold case.

 

***

 

In the morning, Sherlock calls the best skating school in London. They ask him what kind of national competition he is aiming for next season. "All of them," is apparently a satisfying answer, one he has successfully thought of on the spot, under pressure.

Mrs Hubert seems a bit appalled when he shows on the ice for his first lesson.

 

***

 

Mrs Hubert says that she will teach Sherlock how to skate properly, even if it's the last thing she ever does. Sherlock knew that this was quite the dangerous sport.

 

***

 

The next time John goes out, Sherlock follows, and finds himself at the same ice rink. This time, he's already a bit better. Consequently, John is not so keen on holding him.

"Take my hand, at least," Sherlock insists. "For balance."

John smiles. "All right."

John's hand fits perfectly into Sherlock's. It's warm and small and a lady congratulates them on their recent engagement. Sherlock did not know blind people could skate. The reflection on the ice is too imprecise to correctly see if his face is betraying him. But John just thanks her, and skates along.

Sherlock loses his balance once, and clings to John's arm, starting to slide in a circle around him, out of control. John laughs, catching him by the waist, returning him by his side. They eventually start circling the ring in the other way. Sherlock gets to know John's left hand, and he likes it even better than the right one.

Not once he loses his balance. Not once John has to catch him.

Sherlock nearly wishes he wasn't getting better at all.

 

***

 

After seven sessions, Mrs Hubert seems relatively pleased. Sherlock can skate forwards, backwards, sideways, do the wavy thing with his blades, skate fast, skate slow, stop sideways while propelling a satisfying amount of snow from his blades. Next, she wants to teach Sherlock how to do an arabesque.

Sherlock considers that maybe his skating career has to come to an end.

 

***

 

It's snowing outside and it's after one in the morning, but there's an ice skating rink at Regent's Park and it's _snowing outside_. John is grumpy and angry at being woken in the middle of the night and thrown outside with a pair of skates.

"Is it for an experiment, Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn't reply but keeps walking until they're at Regent's, under the pale light of the lampposts, the snow muffling the life and the city all around them. They put their skates on in silence, John still mumbling under his breath about how all of this is crazy, waking up in the middle of the night just because it's snowing, but John doesn't know that John looks _perfect_ when it's snowing.

They get on the ice, their silhouettes shadowed by the trees. At this hour, they're the only ones there (and maybe a few other homeless people watching in the bushes, but that's a slightly less romantic deduction, Sherlock concludes). They start slowly, going around in circles, hand in hand. John is touching him less and less now that Sherlock's considerably better, although he doesn't show all of his skills at once.

His plans are cut short: there's a branch that cracks over them, and Sherlock propels them both forward in a complicated motion, stopping them by breaking sideways.

"Jesus Christ!" John pants, looking at the rather considerable obstacle now on the ice rink. Then at Sherlock. Then at the branch. Then at Sherlock. (Tremendously slow, but Sherlock gives him the time to make the connection.) "You… you actually know how to skate."

"I… learned."

"When?"

"After the first time we skated together."

John gapes a bit. Quite adorable. Sherlock was right: the snow does suit him. "So _that's_ where you were all these times you said you were going to the eye doctor."

Sherlock frowns. "I didn't know it was suspicious to you." 

"Sherlock," John says, looking at him with the kind of fondness common people have towards guilty children or puppies. "Nobody goes to the eye doctor seven times in a three weeks span." Did he really give the same excuse every time? "You learned to skate… Why exactly? I thought you hated it."

"Seemed… important." Sherlock shrugs. "To you."

There's a moment where Sherlock wonders if John himself has forgotten how to skate because it's evident that at this speed he will be crashing on—

On Sherlock mouth. Yes.

The kiss is warm and tastes like nothing at all but a bit of mint-flavoured toothpaste, which makes Sherlock frown, because that's actually _his_ toothpaste, and not John's, so why John is using his— but it doesn't matter at all right now, because John is kissing him and Sherlock is kissing him back as well as he was trying to skate that first day (not very well but with great enthusiasm when it comes to being close to John).

Both of them fall backwards, into the snow, John on top of him, all skating forgotten. Sherlock quickly shuffles around John's priorities: Sherlock Holmes finally _does_ come before skating, which means he's still second place to books. He'll have to ask John if he's that keen on reading after all, because he'd really like that first place.

Once his backside feels frozen enough, Sherlock breaks off the kiss.

"Sorry," John mumbles, trying to get up, but with a smile on his face.

Sherlock clings to his forearm, making John fall once more on top of him. "You'll have to help me, I assure you that I don't know how to skate."

John laughs, unaware of the snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. "All right. We can hold hands." He waves the fingers of his perfect-small-warm hand with Sherlock's. "For balance."

"For balance," Sherlock repeats.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As this was written for a prompt exchange, you should definitely read [mandysimo13's ficlet that she did with my skinny dipping prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800010), it's amazing!


End file.
